THIRTEEN
Caelian
Nevaeh ison her best behavior.
We take a limousine into the city. One of my men by the name of Sergio drives. Nevaeh and I sit on opposite sides of the limo avoiding each other.
More so on my end.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about mia bella ballerina throughout our recent struggles, it’s that she hates to be ignored.
There’s no easier way to drive her crazy than to ignore her. Pretend her presence, her whole existence doesn’t matter. Immature? Perhaps.
But given what has transpired, I feel well within my rights. Ms. Poitier has warned about playing these games with my wife. She’s stated forgiveness is necessary, and if I hold a grudge, things between us will only deteriorate.
“Nevaeh is begging for you to give her a second chance, C,” she lectured earlier this morning. I was seated in my home office sipping an espresso and glancing over theDresden Reporter—about as civilized and sophisticated as I get—when she brought down the mood with her advice.
I offered her no real reaction at first. I continued sipping my coffee, skimming through the city paper out of curiosity if I’d come across a news story of interest. Something that tied back to my family or Nero and the Vorones.
Ms. Poitier pressed me. She edged closer so she was in my peripheral when she put hands on her hips and issued more of her “wise” words.
“You might as well give the girl to Nero.”
“You’ve told bad jokes before. But this one takes the cake.” I swallowed the last of the espresso and turned over the creased newspaper to read the other side.
“Who’s joking? I’m being serious. If you’re not going to forgive her, then give her away. It’s cruel of you to keep her like this.”
I couldn’t help myself. I scowled at her. “And giving her away to Nero wouldn’t be cruel?”
“It would be extremely cruel. That’s my point, C.Bothare cruel.”
“Something tells me I’m slightly less cruel to her than Nero would be.”
“Says who? The girl’s in love with you… and you’re pretending she doesn’t exist. All while you hold onto your marriage and rut inside her like some savage beast.”
“You say that like I consider being a savage beast to be a bad thing.”
Ms. Poitier lost her patience with a roll of her eyes. “You say that like it’s something to be proud of. Keep playing these games, C. You’re going to play right into irreversible territory. You’re going to play so damn much you won’t have a wife left.”
I never dignified her with an answer.
TheDresden Reporterheld my attention.
…or that’s what I prefer for Ms. Poitier to think.
It’s what I want Nevaeh to think too. That I’m some heartless, cruel bastard who doesn’t give a fuck if I make my ballerina suffer. It would be deserved in every way.
And I do feel that way. I am that vicious, that uncaring to others. I’ve never given any fucks about anybody but myself. I moved away from civilization for a reason, and I’ve lived my life even as a capo under Pa’s rule with that philosophy. My wants come above all else.
Nevaeh, as much as she may believe I hate her, is the only exception.
I do care about mia bella ballerina. My sweet, beautiful, fucking sensuous angel.
I care so much she consumes my thoughts even when I pretend she doesn’t. When she’s present, it’s even worse. I can’t concentrate on the matters I should be concentrating on.
Her absence intensifies this problem of mine.
Yesterday I was in the war room planning our next move with my men as obsessive thoughts about Nevaeh filled my head. Afterward, I’d found her in the study and fucked her on the armchair where she was reading a book. By the time I was through with her, she was hanging half upside down over the armrest, her dress flipped up for quick, easy access.
